


Run Away

by MlleBree



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 20:59:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17947013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleBree/pseuds/MlleBree
Summary: Christine realizes the extent of her trauma on her wedding night. Smutty angst. R/C.





	Run Away

It was wrong.

Everything about it was so terribly, indefensibly _wrong_.

The yards of white fabric weighed a million pounds; she was suffocating, drowning in the frilly dress. It was perfect. It clung to her frame; she had never looked so much like royalty. She had insisted that she wouldn't wear a veil. She couldn't bear to cover her face. It only felt like mockery now.

Everything in her life was perfect. Her brand new husband, her dress, her home.

She couldn't, for the life of her, figure out why she was so unhappy. She should be overjoyed.

Her husband's hands were warm and soft as they brushed her hair over her shoulder; the pins had been discarded almost immediately. His lips were full and gentle as they brushed against the skin just at the edge of her jaw. Christine shivered at the sensation and she couldn't quite decide if it was nerves or horror.

There were a million thoughts flitting through her mind at any given moment; she wasn't sure that she would ever truly know quiet again.

Raoul's warm fingers slid around to the ties of her wedding dress. The thought that filled her mind now was that it was terribly wrong; they were warm and strong and completely lacking any of the rough calluses that she had grown so used to.

Her own palms found him, tracing from his waist and up his chest. It was _wrong_. He was solid and warm, his chest was broad, his brown eyes were full of adoration and she couldn't feel anything but empty. She forced herself to smile at him.

"It was a beautiful wedding," she whispered breathlessly as she felt the ties giving under his careful attention.

His lips brushed against her temple. "As are you," he murmured warmly.

She resisted the urge to catch the dress as it slid to the floor.

Suffocating. It had been suffocating.

Perhaps that was what she wanted.

She had never felt so exposed in all her life.

Christine closed her eyes for only a brief moment. Cold, calloused fingers traced over her body beneath her husband's touch; yellow eyes stared back at her in the darkness behind her eyelids. She blinked, grasping onto Raoul's shirt tightly.

"The light," she whimpered. "Please, please, the lamp, Raoul."

Raoul guided her gently to the edge of the bed, shushing her, not leaving her side until she finally sank down to sit on the side of it. She was trembling, absolutely trembling and she wasn't sure that she could help it.

Christine knew that she was beyond repair. Even as the oil lamp flickered to life she couldn't stop the way her fingers shook, the way her breath caught.

Raoul captured her hands between his, standing before her on one knee. His warm, too-perfect lips brushed against her knuckles and he held them there for a long moment. His moustache tickled just the slightest bit. "We can rest, Lotte," he said eventually. "I know - it's all happened so quickly. You must be overwhelmed."

Christine closed her eyes again, taking a deep breath through her nose. All she saw was darkness and she released a relieved sigh. "I'm fine, Raoul. I'm only a little nervous."

"He can't find you here, Christine," he reminded her softly, his thumbs tracing over her delicate wrists. "You are safe. _We_ are safe."

It was true enough. If _he_ was still even alive she doubted that he would tread all the way to Sweden to search for them. He had let her go. He had given her the gift of freedom. The last time her eyes had landed on him he seemed so weak and feeble - she very much doubted that he had followed them because she very much doubted that he was still alive.

She wasn't sure why that thought buried a pit of dread in her stomach.

Raoul kissed the inside of her wrist gently. "I promise to keep you safe, Christine. For the rest of our lives."

She nodded and when he slowly moved to stand she stayed perfectly still, letting him tilt her chin up and claim her lips. She kissed him back. She even allowed it to feel right, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to pull him closer.

Husband. He was her husband. He was _hers_. It was so much more than she would have ever allowed herself to dream.

Off came her corset. Oddly enough, she felt comfortable under his gaze in her thin chemise. Raoul was gentle. He was kind. He loved her.

When she began to unbutton his waistcoat he seemed surprised but he made no movement to stop her. He let her push it open, he even shrugged it from his shoulders.

Raoul had to tilt his head slightly to kiss her. Christine had never noticed that it was required before; she wondered if Erik would have had to do the same. It was a wistful sort of thought that came and passed without lingering in her mind. She had a million of them a day.

For a long moment Christine lost track of things. She wasn't sure whether he unbuttoned his shirt or she did; she wasn't sure when exactly her bloomers had been discarded. It didn't register in her mind that they were even gone until his hands skimmed against the hem of her chemise, pulling it up slowly.

Her breath caught and she stared at him. She touched him, reassuring herself that he was real, he was there. Her fingers trailed through the hair on his chest and she revelled in the heat of his skin. It was reassuring, comforting in a way. Erik, for all of his magic tricks, had never been able to disguise the deathly cold of his skin, even through his thick leather gloves.

She wasn't sure why she couldn't seem to stop drawing comparisons between the two in her head. It hardly seemed fair; it hardly seemed possible. They were so different in every way.

Raoul's gaze on her nakedness wasn't entirely unwelcome; she could feel the warm blush rising from her chest and he leaned down, brushing his lips against hers, running his warm, soft hand gently up her side.

"I love you, Christine," he said softly, meeting her eyes.

Even though her smile was weak, it was genuine. She still felt the slightest flutter in her stomach when he said the words. "I love you too," she replied honestly.

His smile was teasing. "My wife."

"My husband," she whispered, trying to allow the words to actually sink in.

He was gentle with her. He took the time to kiss her, to love her, and when he slid inside of her it wasn't half as painful as she had expected it to be.

The pain was offset by the gentle kisses he pressed along her throat and jaw and the sweet words he mumbled against her slick skin.

It took a moment, only a moment, for her to relax. Her head pressed back against the pillow as he caught against something inside of her that sent a shiver up her spine.

Christine wanted to turn off. She wanted to shut out all of her uneasy thoughts and allow herself to enjoy the pleasure with her husband. And it _was_ pleasure that she felt as he rolled his hips against hers, as he moved inside of her and kissed at her throat and squeezed her waist gently.

She wasn't sure why, when her husband was overtop of her and inside of her, she glanced toward the window but she did all the same and for a moment she lost her breath. Two distinctly bright, yellow lights shone through the window.

 _Stars_ , she reminded her over-active imagination. _Stars shine bright in the country. They are stars, that's all._

That didn't stop her from digging her nails into her husband's skin. It didn't stop her from burying her face against his throat as she clung to him.

Raoul was here. He was here, he was safe. They were safe. He promised her. There was no noose around his throat, no room of mirrors, no more riddles to decipher. He would protect her. He would keep her safe.

The pleasure she felt was still there but it hid behind a wall of nervousness. When she managed to convince herself that she was utterly insane she peeked from behind her husband's shoulder and back toward the window, satisfying herself with the fact that the lights she saw remained in exactly the same place.

Erik was dead. The thought was equal parts crushing and relieving.

Somehow, despite the constantly fluttering thoughts that filled her head, Raoul managed to coax her pleasure to the forefront. For a moment there was a blissful wave of silence; there was nothing but her gasp as she clung to him and fell over the edge.

He followed close behind her. She knew from the way he trembled, from the sudden new warmth deep inside of her, from the way he pressed his lips against her throat to quiet himself.

They didn't whisper to each other afterwards. She lay in silence, wrapped in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart deep in his warm chest. His smooth fingers trailed over her bare skin and she propped her head up on his chest, staring at the lights through the window as she gently pulled the hair on his chest between her thumb and forefinger.

They shone bright and steady. There was no flicker, no dimming, no blink. Even Erik had to blink.

It wasn't Erik. It was two bright stars shining in the sky.

Christine wondered if she would ever stop seeing him. She wondered if she would ever get rid of the image of Raoul staggering across the mockery of Erik's sitting room, half-dead and dripping on the rug. She wondered if she would ever feel whole again, if she could ever find the simple happiness she had felt when she first caught a glimpse of Raoul up in his brother's opera box.

When she slipped naked from the bed Raoul didn't question her. She stood at the window for a long time, staring out at the grass and trees and stars. The only movement she could see was the tree limbs swaying in the breeze.

"Lotte?" Raoul's voice was uneasy. That was what snapped her back to reality.

They were in Sweden. She was married. Erik was dead. They were honestly, truly safe. She could be happy. She could have her normal life, her handsome husband. They could have children and go for walks. He would take her to church and they could pray. Erik was dead - she didn't have to feel guilty. She could squish down the remorse if she tried hard enough. He was dead. He wasn't suffering anymore. He _wanted_ her to be happy, right? In the end, at least. One day she would close her eyes and she wouldn't see Joseph Buquet hanging from a prop tree. She wouldn't see a corpse-face bleeding as her nails were forced to rake against its flesh. She wouldn't see the chandelier careening toward the stage. That was what she had to believe. One day.

She only glanced out at the shadows in the yard one more time before she drew the curtains closed tightly. They were thick, thank God, and blocked out the light of the stars.

She dimmed the oil lamp and climbed back into bed, burrowing herself in her husband's warm chest, pressing her lips against his soft skin.

When she cried he said nothing. He only pulled her close, stroked her hair, and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

They would be alright in the end. She knew that they would be. Because even as she cried he held her tightly. Even as she shivered and her mind wandered he kissed her. Even as she had continued to try to sacrifice herself he had risked his own life to save hers.

They would be alright. She knew because even as she cried he ran his too-soft fingers through her hair and whispered, "I love you."

And Christine knew that she would be alright, too, because even though she couldn't force herself to return the words through her tight throat she had heard them in the midst of the flurry in her head.


End file.
